Touch
by akaiciel
Summary: Contemplation from Max's dad about his son and his wife, with a mild Tyson/Max element. This may become sidefic to a longer arc.


Touch

"Touchy-feely" is probably the least offensive way to put it, but it still doesn't sound quite right. 

Max has a habit of touching the people around him, making sure that they're still there. He grasps their hand, links arms with them, gives them a slap on the back, and always with that smile of his, that grin that lets everyone around him know how happy he is to be in their company. 

I think it started with his mother. Every day, when Max came running home from school, I'd pick him up and spin him around, playing games where I was the space ship and he was the captain, I was the aeroplane and he was the pilot - anything that involved him being in my arms. 

When Judy came home several hours later, Max would be treated to a smile as she sat at the dinner table. 

Judy is a scientist. She looks at people behind screens for a living. Sometimes the screens are actually there, solid plastic or glass, but sometimes she puts them there herself, where no one else can see. 

Max could feel it, I know he could, but he had no idea why she'd created this barrier, or how to make it go away. Eventually, he stopped trying to hug Judy, or even hold her hand, desperately certain that the more he acted like her, the more she would love him. 

Not being loved enough is the one thing Max has never had to worry about - one flash of those pearly whites, and people fall in love with him instantly; it's just the way he is. 

Ironically enough, when Judy left, Max assumed it was because he hadn't made it obvious enough how much he cared for her. He tried to make sure it would never happen again, by touching those around him, talking and laughing with them. After a while, it became habit, and by eleven, he was the affectionate kid that everyone knows and loves. 

But he wasn't happy. 

Some people think my son is less intelligent and weaker than those around him. The fact is, he'd rather laugh something off than argue about it, and his battles are chosen so carefully that his strength is rarely seen. There are a lot of people who don't realise that Max even has strong emotions, who only see the easy-going side that he so readily presents. 

I'm ashamed to say that I was among those people. I thought that what I saw was all there was.

Then at eleven, Max discovered beyblades. 

I remember clearly ripping open that first pack for him. Max is always allowed to sample the new toys in my hobby shop, I even used to joke with him that he was my Fun Consultant. He liked that a lot, especially when he was younger. He found some old glasses with no lenses from somewhere, and would dress up in his best suit to come with me "to work". When he got too hot (as he invariably did) he'd crawl upstairs, change into some lighter clothes and bound back down again. 

Ordinarily, Max would play with something for a few days until a new toy came in, discarding each one as quickly as my suppliers could provide them. It became obvious very quickly that beyblading was something different. Beyblading he _practised_. 

And he became very, very good. It gave him ambition, a channel to focus his energy, and a way to express the more raw emotions inside him. It's a lot to attribute to a kid's game, I know, but the fact is that it's true. Even more than that, it gave him true friends, a way to connect with his mother for the first time in years, and something else altogether… 

I was upstairs when I heard the familiar sounds of Max practising in the back garden. There was laughing, and teasing, and even some playful trash talk. I looked out of the window, and saw that Max's friend Tyson was on the other side of the dish. 

Tyson's a nice kid. A bit brash, quite loud, very arrogant, but it's the right sort of arrogance. When faced with a challenge, he'll work until he's overcome it, then search everywhere until he finds another challenge to help him improve himself. Max liked him from the start, and he's been around here pretty much non-stop since then.

Contrary to popular belief, Tyson does not win every single match he plays. In fact, I've seen Max and Rei beat him on many occasions, just as he was beaten today. 

"Attack, Draciel!" There was that flash of passion in his eyes, and his blade slammed Tyson's from the dish. Tyson's jaw dropped, and he knelt to pick up his blade. Max laughed, and flung an arm around his friend's shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it Tyson!" he said good-naturedly. "It's a new move I've been working on. What do you think?" 

Tyson grinned at him. "I think your new move is awesome, Max! I didn't even see what you did, Draciel came from nowhere!" 

Max laughed. "Not quite nowhere," was all he said before fixing his blade back to his launcher and displaying to Tyson exactly what he'd done and how he'd done it. 

Mr Dickinson once said that Max is generous almost to a fault - he's been teaching Tyson everything he knows since they first met, even when they were competing against each other. I don't know too many thirteen-year-olds that would do that. 

I was about to walk away from the window, when I saw something new in this familiar scene. 

Max was holding Tyson's hand. 

I stopped, stunned. Had he taken Tyson's hand? Had Tyson taken his? Was this something new? Why hadn't he told me about it? 

As I stared at them, Max gave Tyson a quick kiss on the cheek. I suddenly felt horrendously guilty for watching this, but I couldn't look away. 

It was a comfortable move, and I knew for certain that this wasn't something new for them. Max was treating Tyson as affectionately as he treated everyone, but there was something else there, something I couldn't quite define. It was subtle, but it set Tyson out as special, and I wondered how I could have been so blind as to miss it in the past. 

"Do you get it now?" I heard Max say, and Tyson nodded, grinning as usual. 

"For sure! Thanks for that, Maxy! 

And then the biggest surprise of all happened, as Tyson leaned over and returned Max's kiss, but on the lips. 

I remember what kissing at thirteen was like, and saw the same signs of awkwardness in those two. Gradually though, they got into a rhythm, figured out where to put their hands, and just seemed to be enjoying it. 

I turned away from the window and slid to the floor, shocked at what I'd just seen. It's one thing to have thoughts, suspicions, to recognise certain things about your child, but it's another to see them acted out in front of you. Shakily, I reached over and pulled down a framed photo from my bedside table. 

Judy. She's always been beautiful, but she's too used to her screens. If she could cut off the bars she places around herself, forget for one minute that she's a scientist… I'd give anything to have her back like that, the way she was before. 

I wonder what she'd have said if she'd been the one stood here this evening. I wondered if I should tell her, then decided against it immediately. Max has to build up his own relationship with his mother, not have the distance I share with her forced on him. 

I hope he tells her. Apart from anything, maybe it would startle her into actually talking with him, having a proper conversation. He told me that they spoke once, on the roof of a hotel in America. She told him to drop out of the last match of the American tournament, to avoid humiliation. 

It just demonstrates how little she knows him, but to be fair, I can see why. When he's around her, Max becomes the closed little kid he turned her into, forgets everything else that he's become since he was seven, and just remembers that this woman, his mother, doesn't like to be touched. 

I wish she'd get to know him. I wish she'd look at him and see herself at a younger age, the way I do. I wish she'd remember what it's like to feel the way he does, to laugh the way he does. I wish she'd learn all of this, then come back to me. I wish she'd never left, that she could be standing here with me, able to tell me what she thinks about this new development in our son's life. 

He told me that they spoke on another occasion, in the stadium itself. I can remember seeing that on TV, desperate to hear what was being said. Max tells me that Judy simply told him that she was proud of him, and that she loves him. 

As he told me this, Max glowed, bursting with the happiness that these few words of praise had given him. I wish they meant less to him. I wish the effect of them was diluted through hearing them so often. He shouldn't have to cling to a few rare words! He should be showered with love from his mother, the way he deserves! Why can't she see that? 

I stand up, brushing the dust off my knees, and place the photo back on the table. For a moment, the telephone catches my eye, and I'm a hair's breadth from calling her, from telling her everything I feel and begging her to come home, the way I did all those years ago…

But those days are over now. If Judy wants to see us, she'll come home. Until then, though, Max will just have to be satisfied with those few words. No, that's wrong, Max _is_ satisfied with those few words. I'm the one who isn't. 

These thoughts intruding in my mind, I clump downstairs to make the dinner, hoping that something as mundane as cooking will drag me back to the real world, where Judy is gone and not coming back, and Max is in love with another boy. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
